


The highway Man

by gaybutnohoray



Category: The Book of Mormon - Ambiguous Fandom, The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Angst, Based on a Poem, Connor McKinley - Freeform, Kinda..., Loreena Mckennitt also has a pretty nifty song about this poem, M/M, based on the highway man, connor is Bess, enjoy, kevin is the highway man, kevin price - Freeform, mcpriceley, mcpricely - Freeform, okay im done now, original poem by Alfred Noyes, read this poem and thought of them for some reason, sorry if this sucks, wow first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 13:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14749554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaybutnohoray/pseuds/gaybutnohoray
Summary: I wanted to re-write the highway man but uuuuuuuuh with Connor and Kevin. So yeah. I did that....... . like literally this is the poem but l tampered with it so it was male pronouns and matched their physical descriptions.... enjoy?!





	The highway Man

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the highway man](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/383490) by Alfred Noyes. 



The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,

and the highway man came riding-

riding-riding

The highway man came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;

They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!

And he rode with a jeweled twinkle,

His pistol butts a-twinkle,

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,

And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's blue-eyed son,

Connor, the landlord's son,

toying with his bright red hair.

And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked

Where Chris the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like dirty hay,

But he loved the landlord's son,

The landlord's soft-lipped son,

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;

Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,

Then look for me by moonlight,

Watch for me by moonlight,

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach his hand,

But Connor reached down and touched his cheek! His face burnt like a brand

And he kissed his hand in the moonlight,

(Oh, soft and sweet in the moonlight!)

Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

 

 

 

**Part 2**

 

 He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;

And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,

When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching

Marching-marching

King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

 They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,

But they gagged his son and bound him to the foot of his narrow bed;

Two of them knelt at his casement, with muskets at their side!

There was death at every window;

And hell at one dark window;

For Connor could see, through the casement, the road that his love would ride.

They tied him up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;

They bound a musket beside him, with the barrel beneath his chest!

"Now keep good watch!" and they slapped him.

He heard the dead man say

Look for me by moonlight;

Watch for me by moonlight;

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way 

He twisted his hands behind him; but all the knots held good!

He writhed his hands till his fingers were wet with sweat or blood!

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,

Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,

Cold, on the stroke of midnight,

The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was his!

The tip of one finger touched it; he strove no more for the rest!

Up, he stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath his chest,

He would not risk their hearing; he would not strive again;

For the road lay bare in the moonlight;

Blank and bare in the moonlight;

And the blood of his veins in the moonlight throbbed to his love's refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;

Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,

The highwayman came riding,

Riding, riding!

The red-coats looked to their priming! Connor stood up strait and still!

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!

Nearer his love came and nearer! His face was like a light!

His eyes grew wide for a moment; he drew one last deep breath,

Then his finger moved in the moonlight,

His musket shattered the moonlight,

Shattered his chest in the moonlight and Connor warned him - with his death.

Kevin turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood

Connor bowed, with his head t'is musket, drenched with his own red blood!

Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear

How Connor, the landlord's son,

The landlord's blue-eyed son,

Had watched for his love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

 Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,

With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!

Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,

When they shot him down on the highway,

Down like a dog on the highway,

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat

*******

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

A highwayman comes riding

Riding-riding

A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,

And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's blue-eyed son,

Conner, the landlord's son,

Toying with his dark red hair.

**Author's Note:**

> uuuuh i hope you enjoyed that if you read it. and thanks for reading.....
> 
>  
> 
> also uuum the origional story contains hets.... so beware the hets.


End file.
